


In Absentia

by AwkwardAnnie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (of a sort), Dirty Talk, Longing, M/M, Mentions of kink, Phone Sex, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnnie/pseuds/AwkwardAnnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enduring Sauron's absence from Angband proves surprisingly difficult. Melkor takes (in)appropriate action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a dull and uneventful night and Melkor lay in an empty bed, vainly attempting to sleep.

There are several aspects of that sentence that must be examined before the story can proceed. Firstly the fact that it was night must be clarified, as the permanent pall of thick black clouds that blanketed Angband and cast their grim shadows over its towers made the difference between day and night a matter of purely academic interest. It was true that the inhabitants of the fortress kept a timetable that roughly aligned with the passage of the comparatively new sun across the heavens but it was mostly for the sake of convenience, not least since it helped to have some idea of when their more obviously diurnal enemies might be asleep.

On that subject, sleeping was an unusual pastime for Melkor. Valar did not habitually sleep (though Irmo had always done a very good impression of it, particularly during councils) and it had come as something of a surprise to Melkor that his corporeal body not only _could_ sleep but actually _needed_ to sleep and indeed would do so without his consent if he neglected it for too long. He had ascertained through some entertaining experiments with his more disposable prisoners that it needed less than the standard Elf or Man, but the requirement was nevertheless there. It was therefore frustrating when, despite demanding rest, it stubbornly refused to commit to the task.

It was probably Sauron's fault, he had decided. It had now been twenty-three days (or twenty-three conveniently timed watch cycles, if one preferred) since the Maia had left to tend the garrison at Tol Sirion and his absence was having some unfortunate side-effects of which his non-presence in Melkor's bed was but one, albeit a very prominent one. It wasn't that Melkor _missed_ him, because that would imply some sort of emotional requirement that Melkor was frankly unprepared to examine further, but there was a definite sense of wrongness about it which was doubtless to blame for his difficulty in sleeping.

Finally, it was not strictly true that the bed was empty. Certainly it was devoid of Sauron, but it was in reality quite full and what it was mostly full of was wolf.

It had been the second day after Sauron's departure that Melkor had opened his door and fallen over Draugluin, who had been curled up against it like an enormous blue-grey draft excluder. The huge creature usually slept in the forges where the great furnaces kept the ambient temperature just shy of blood-boiling but in Sauron's absence the fires had been damped down and this apparently rendered them unacceptable as a dwelling-place. Melkor had intended to refuse entry with every ounce of lordly power within him but the beast had given him such a wretchedly sorrowful look that he had been quite unable to follow through.

"Very well," he had said, "but just the once. And stay off the bed!" Of course, wolves being as they are, this order had had entirely the opposite effect. Still, it was nice to have some company, even if it did drool all over the pillows.

But the fact remained that he was bored and sleep eluded him, and even if he wouldn't admit to actually missing his lieutenant, he was definitely regretting sending him on such a remote mission. He wondered what Sauron was doing at that moment. Was he overseeing the reconstruction of the walls? Discussing the movements of the guards? What, when it came down to it, did he actually do that kept the great iron war machine rolling along?

Deprived of any other entertainment, Melkor resolved to find out. He closed his eyes and stretched out his mind, through the fortress with its myriad scurrying inhabitants, each one a tiny cog in the whirring leviathan of his empire. He reached beyond the black gates, out from under the shrouding darkness and into prickling starlight. Here his mental map of the landscape became muddied and indistinct, hidden from him by powers he had not yet mastered. Further he searched, and finally he found it: a bright flickering of power and will, alien in the surrounding grey mire and yet so familiar. With his usual subtlety, he gave it a poke. When it failed to respond, he prodded it again, slightly harder. After a few more seconds of inactivity, he administered the proverbial jab in the ribs.

There was a moment of confusion, a sort of mental white noise, then a voice in his head said, with the merest edge of panic, _My lord? What is the matter?_

 _Peace, Mairon,_ said Melkor. _All is well. I was merely curious to know how things proceeded with you._

There was a long pause, then Sauron's voice returned. He did not sound panicked anymore. He sounded irritated. _I was asleep, my lord,_ he said tersely. _It is past the first watch._

That was not an answer that Melkor had been expecting. Sauron did not technically need to sleep, not being bound to a physical form as Melkor was. True, he would spend the night in Melkor’s bed with minimal complaint but Melkor had always assumed that it was out of politeness. And yet… perhaps he enjoyed sleeping. Melkor felt the smallest stab of guilt at having roused him, but it soon passed. _Since you are awake now, you might as well appraise me of the situation._

 _It has not changed since my report, which you should have received three days since. Or, rather, four days since,_ Sauron added slightly bitterly. _I assume it did arrive, my lord?_

The report had arrived. Melkor had read it, a change from his usual method of receiving information which was to ignore the written version and wait until Sauron relayed it verbally, editing out the boring bits. What was even more surprising was that, having read it, he had then read it again, and then put it down, and then had come back ten minutes later and read it a third time. He had not yet worked out exactly why he had done this because it was in actuality a very dull message concerned mostly with battalion numbers and the cost of repairing the outer fortifications; Sauron had a quick wit and a tongue sharper than a rapier but he wrote deeply unexciting reports. On the other hand, Melkor was prepared to admit that the Maia did have very aesthetically pleasing handwriting.

The report had arrived, and Melkor had for reasons unknown read it three times. So it was unclear why, instead of confirming this fact, he instead said, _It has not yet reached me. What of note did it contain?_

There came over the mental link a curious sensation, like a breath of air across his mind that carried with it the distinct feeling of directionless aggravation. He realised that it was Sauron sighing heavily.

_Will it suffice if I merely read the draft copy to you, my lord?_

Melkor considered this. _That will be satisfactory._

He lasted perhaps five minutes, and the last thought he remembered having before his body finally decided to abandon the waking world for a few hours was that it was really, _really_ nice to hear his lieutenant's voice again.

 

* * *

 

The months dragged on and things continued much as they had done. Sauron did whatever it was that he was doing on Tol Sirion and wrote long, dull reports about it which Melkor read and then pretended that he hadn't so that Sauron had to repeat them to him the following evening. The reports themselves piled up in an untidy stack on Melkor's desk, with the exception of a particularly finely drawn map of the island and the surrounding landscape complete with troop movements and scout routes marked out in different coloured inks, which Melkor had pinned to the wall with a dagger. Draugluin took up progressively more of the bed, like a gigantic wolf-shaped fungus, and Melkor grew accustomed to waking up bereft of blankets and with paws the size of dinner plates shoved in his face. There was, however, a bigger issue which was becoming more and more apparent. It turned out that the worst thing about not sharing a bed with Sauron was not _sharing a bed_ with Sauron.

Melkor had not foreseen this being a problem. Sex, like sleep, did not come naturally to the Valar, and until now Melkor had thought of his arrangement with Sauron as being something of a bonus feature of an already satisfactory working relationship. While the opportunity was there, he would indulge, but he had imagined that the loss of that opportunity would be no great injury.

To his distress, this was proving not to be the case. Not a day had passed where he had not longed, even in the most cursory way, for Sauron's physical presence; the sound of footsteps at his side, the press of a hand to his elbow, a kiss stolen with a sly grin and a promise of more; and the longing settled as curling desire in the pit of his stomach. The dreams were particularly bad. Melkor found dreams unsettling at the best of times, judging them to be the third most startling thing about life in a physical body, but dreams where he woke up hard, sweating and hundreds of miles from his preferred form of relief were, he felt, a step too far.

It was one such occurrence where Melkor had awoken from a particularly vivid vision, wherein he had been flat on his back on that same bed with his lieutenant's head between his thighs, aroused beyond all belief, into a reality which had only managed two out of three. He lay there for a while and glowered at the canopy of the bed as if doing so might offer some reprieve from his condition. After a few minutes he was forced to accept that he could not frown his arousal away. A more direct approach was required.

He took himself in hand with a hiss of pleasure, shifted onto his side to get a better angle and discovered Draugluin sitting up and watching him with an expression of polite animal curiosity.

Melkor rolled over and tried very, very hard to go back to sleep.

This was becoming ridiculous. Something had to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

The plan came to him in the middle of a meeting. In his absence, Sauron had delegated his various duties and responsibilities to a selection of his own trusted seconds. The task of chairing the weekly strategy meetings, for instance, had fallen to Gothmog, who had taken to the job with tremendous enthusiasm and then changed his mind almost immediately. The meetings were now twice as long and involved ten times as much shouting. Sauron had raised his voice exactly once in a strategy meeting, and that had been over a hundred years ago. He had not had to do so since; the story was still passed around the fortress in a hushed whisper. Despite being significantly more physically imposing than Sauron, Gothmog was apparently less terrifying, judging from the difficulty he was having trying to make the squabbling orcs shut up for long enough to be productive.

Not that Melkor was paying much attention, occupied as he was in trying to gradually move one particularly argumentative orc's drink closer to the edge of the table in the hope that it might get knocked off by its owner's angry gesticulations. It was proving engagingly difficult; orcs were not by nature very bright but even the really stupid ones would probably notice a mug sliding across the table of its own accord. It required subtlety, and Melkor had never been very good at that. Still, Sauron had over the years caused all sorts of amusing mischief among his armies with such tricks and Melkor refused to be outdone by his pesky Maia.

Rapidly running out of patience, Gothmog snarled something vaguely threatening and spread his wings to emphasise his point, cuffing an unprepared servant in the face. Melkor used the distraction to mentally nudge the mug of ale another inch closer to its doom. It was becoming easier every time, and he was only sorry that Sauron was not here to witness the no-doubt-hilarious end result

As was becoming the case more and more frequently, one stray thought concerning his lieutenant became two, then three, until he found himself contemplating the occasions when Sauron had livened up other equally dull councils with his particular wicked brand of entertainment, putting his own powers of will to an entirely different purpose. And as he thought, the beginnings of a plan were forming in Melkor’s mind. It was a good plan. It was, he fancied, rather devious, slightly cruel and definitely entertaining. The only question was--

“ **SILENCE**!” thundered Gothmog in a roar that shook the rafters, and the shadows gathered behind him in a miasma of darkness. The entire committee froze in a tableau of chaos and disorder, which was unfortunate for the scout captain who had been caught in a headlock by the engineering chief.

With apparently no concern for his own safety, a certain orc interjected into the tense silence, “Captain Gothmog, perhaps now we could return to my proposal-”

Gothmog rounded on him, wings flaring. “ **NO! If you so much as mention fish once more I shall personally throw you from the highest peak of this fortress! And that goes for the rest of you as well** ,” he growled at the other generals. “ **How Mairon has managed to last so long without disemboweling the whole wretched lot of you, I can but wonder. Henceforth, your options are to be silent and listen to me, or find yourself new service as a hearthrug.** "

“Yes,” added Melkor, who had been rudely shaken out of his pleasant schemings by Gothmog’s enraged outburst and was feeling rather vengeful. “Do be quiet.”

His voice was soft, but the effect was immediate. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to him, wide and horrified, as if they had forgotten that their lord and master had been sat at the other end of the table for the last hour or so. Under his gaze the warring generals sank meekly into their chairs, avoiding each other’s eyes and, in the case of the scout captain, massaging their neck. A couple had the decency to look embarrassed. The orcs seated closest to Melkor began the delicate process of edging away from him while simultaneously trying to appear as though they were not. No-one said a word.

Gothmog gave him something approximating a grateful look. “ **Now** ,” he said. “ **Let us continue**.” And he reached down and produced a huge stack of papers, which he dropped on the table with a shuddering thud.

There was a beautiful metallic sliding sound, a clang and a splash as the precariously-balanced mug of ale finally surrendered to the inevitable grip of gravity. Out of the corner of his eye, Melkor saw the drink’s bereft owner open her mouth, only to have it clamped shut by her neighbour, whose self-preservation instincts were much more developed.

_Ah_ , thought Melkor with a grin as he settled back in his throne and resumed his diabolical plotting, the only sound the curmudgeonly grumble of Gothmog berating the troops about incorrectly filed inventory reports. _True power._

 

 

* * *

 

When Gothmog had finally exhausted his list of complaints and dismissed the eerily silent generals, Melkor retired to his chambers to put the first part of his plan into action. As he locked the door, Draugluin looked up from his position in front of the fireplace, but did not deign to get up just yet. Melkor felt sure that the wolf could be doing a bit more around the fortress instead of spending most of the time asleep. He wondered if ordering him to assist with the rodent control problem in the stores would be insulting.

As he sat down at his desk, his eyes fell upon Sauron’s latest report, which was just as unexciting as the last. It was time to introduce some variation. But first, a little reconnaissance.

Just as before, he stretched his will out over the leagues of uninspiring greyness in search of his lieutenant’s spirit. It was not a difficult task, for on the island a warm golden glow had turned the tallest pinnacle of the fortress into a beacon like a torch shining over the landscape. Eagerly Melkor pushed towards that flicker of power, but he pulled up short before he had reached the room at the top of the tower.

Magic lay heavy on the air, twisting and writhing like a living creature. It flowed out towards him and coiled around his will as a serpent around its keeper’s arm, changing and growing even as he beheld it. He knew this power well indeed.

There was a crow perched atop the tower roof and Melkor elbowed his way into its tiny mind, though it took more effort than he would have liked. Then he opened up its ears.

What he heard could only loosely be described as music. It was a phenomenon, layers of sound and magic interwoven and intermingled until there was no clear distinction between the two. It was the hymn of creation and destruction, shaping the air with its notes, rising and falling in cadences and chords that could not be written in any form of notation, nor reproduced on any instrument.

In the fortress of Tol Sirion, Sauron was singing.

Melkor had not heard his lieutenant sing since the making of the World. Often he had felt the curling tendrils of enchantment creeping up from the bowels of Angband, but despite his best efforts he had never succeeded at walking in on Sauron mid-song. It was a rare privilege to be able to listen; even if the crow’s primitive organic hearing could only capture a fraction of the true beauty of the music, it still tugged at his spirit, speaking of power and dominion and order, things concealed and brought to light, a reminder that for all his impertinent cheek and his strange habits and peculiar taste for life in a physical body Sauron was still a creature of magic.

It would be better if he were closer…

He nudged the bird’s head, and out of one beady eye could see that beneath them was a window where the shutters were ajar. Getting there would be tricky. Melkor longed for the days when his spirit was not bound in flesh and might simply have taken control of the creature, but now he was merely a guest in its mind and all he could do was gently steer it in the direction he wanted to go and hope that the creature would take the hint.

He imparted to the crow the suggestion that what it really wanted to do right then was perch on the windowsill. Crows are quite intelligent, by the reckoning of birds, and are difficult to manipulate; if they wish to serve then they will, but otherwise are stubborn as mules and a lot more cunning. Fortunately for Melkor, a passing insect chose that moment to pause on the windowsill, and the promise of food finally got the bird moving. After a brief moment of uncoordinated flapping it was squashed onto the stonework, where it became apparent that the shutter was held ajar by a latch, leaving a gap too small for anything much bigger than a sparrow. It was while Melkor was trying to work out how to undo the latch with a beak that did not belong to him that the music suddenly stopped.

There was the sound of splashing water. Then a voice, arriving via his crow’s ears and not in his mind, said, “If you will permit me a moment to dress, my lord, I will open the window for you.”

That was the element of surprise fleeing into the distance. _How long have you known I was here?_ asked Melkor slightly sheepishly. He didn’t bother to try to convince the crow to speak; its vocal chords were far too rudimentary for that. Where was a Raven when you needed one?

“Since you commandeered my watchbird, my lord,” came Sauron’s voice from within the tower.A moment later the shutter opened in a puff of steam, behind which was the Maia in a red dressing-gown, damp hair hanging down over his shoulders. “How may I amuse you today?”

Melkor’s exaggerated huff came out through his bird’s mouth as a hoarse croak. _You think my communications a source of amusement, Gorthaur?_

“Apologies, my lord,” said Sauron, not missing a beat. “I misspoke. How may I assist you?”

_You may think of this as an inspection,_ said Melkor, thinking as quickly as he could. _I have come to see with mine own eyes how the repairs fare._

Sauron did not roll his eyes, but there was the feeling that this was only through an enormous effort of will. “Then please, do come in, my lord,” he invited, stepping away from the window. “I hope you will forgive my state of undress; I was not expecting you.”

It was a shame that Melkor’s attention was engaged in trying to chivvy the uncooperative crow through the window, because there was an opportunity for a plethora of suggestive responses that he missed entirely. Finally the bird relented and settled itself on the rim of the large copper bathtub that stood in the centre of the room.

_Do you usually set a watch while you wash?_

“One is never more vulnerable than when one is in the bath, my lord.” Sauron knelt by the bath and, holding back the sleeve of his gown, extracted a large cork plug from the bottom of the tub.

Melkor watched the draining water with interest. _I see you have this ‘plumbing’ working as intended_. Sauron had been quite keen on his idea of water travelling about the tower in copper pipes. Melkor had been unmoved--surely that was the purpose of servants?--but he had permitted his lieutenant to carry out a few experiments to judge the utility of the proposal.

“In part, my lord. Draining the water is not difficult; after all, it wishes to flow downhill already. Raising it to the top of the tower in the first place is proving more of a challenge. The pumps require a team of trolls working continuously to maintain pressure and it is not an efficient use of resources.”

This sounded like the beginning of an in-depth lecture about the properties and movements of liquids in confined spaces which, while interesting, was not why Melkor was here. _I assume this will be included in your next report._

Sauron looked up at Melkor--or, at least, the bird currently doing service as Melkor’s eyes and ears--with something dangerously close to a smirk on his face. “I thought my reports never arrived on time.”

_That is not_ my _concern,_ said Melkor icily. The collar of Sauron’s dressing-gown had slid tantalizingly down one shoulder and it was proving very distracting. It was bad enough that the mere sight of his lieutenant filled him with a peculiar warm sensation, without complicating the matter further.

Sauron tipped his head in what might charitably have passed for a deferential manner. “I will endeavour to correct this problem. Now, I beg your pardon, my lord, but I have yet more duties to attend to and should be properly attired. Might I be permitted to dress?”

_You may,_ offered Melkor. Sauron rose, fingers already tugging at the ties of his gown, and for a moment Melkor thought he might simply cast it off there and then. But to his disappointment he was offered no more than a flash of pale shoulders before Sauron slid behind a lavishly decorated wooden screen that stood on the other side of the room.

_Oh, come now, Mairon, there is no need to be shy,_ he leered.

Sauron gave him a devilishly coy look from over the top of the screen. “You may join me over here if you wish, my lord,” he invited. That sounded like an excellent idea. Melkor prodded the crow in Sauron’s direction.

The crow made absolutely no move whatsoever. Melkor prodded harder. The crow sidled down the side of the bath and tested the water-taps to see if they were edible.

_A curse on you and all your line,_ muttered Melkor sulkily.

Sauron peered around the screen, already looking regrettably clothed. “Ah, yes. I am sorry, my lord, but she knows that she is only permitted so far into my chambers. How unfortunate.”

Melkor suspected that Sauron had been fully aware of this from the start. _Damn you, Gorthaur, how many more of my creatures must you seduce to your allegiance--oh, sit down, you accursed beast, it is only water!_ This last outburst was directed at the bird who, having ascertained that the tap was not food, had managed to turn it and been greatly surprised at the sudden rush of water. There was a lot of cawing and flapping, which was extremely disorienting if one happened to be on the inside of it.

Sauron's design was clear. If Melkor wished to continue to tease his lieutenant, and he did indeed, he would have to release his hold on the crow. But that would mean abandoning sight and sound, and that was not ideal.

Perhaps it was better to cut his losses and exit in a dignified manner. After all, this had been a mere scouting visit and it had proven the concept sound enough.

“Is there anything else with which I might assist you?” asked Sauron, re-emerging from behind the screen, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

_Be about your business,_ Melkor said in as haughty a manner as he could manage. _I will expect your next report imminently._

“I shall have Thuringwethil deliver it at once, my lord.”

_See that you do,_ said Melkor firmly, leaving the crow to its own devices, and pretended not to have caught the chuckle that drifted in his wake.

Back in his own chambers, he fumed quietly to himself. Such cheek! But no matter. Penance would be forthcoming in due time. First, though, a pause, to make it appear as though he had forgotten all about it.

This was Stage One of the Plan.


	3. Chapter 3

Melkor bided his time. He did some useful things, like inspecting the new batch of siege machines and arguing with the dragons about how many orcs they were allowed to eat (an argument he was having to have with increasing frequency as the dragons grew larger and, accordingly, more greedy). While he was on the battlements being impressed by the range of the new ballistae, a dark shape dropped like a stone from above the cloud cover and alighted on the parapet where it took on the shape of something roughly humanoid, albeit with considerably more teeth.

“News from the garrisons, my lord,” reported Thuringwethil without any preamble, holding out a stack of folded letters and sealed scrolls. “There is one from Lieutenant Mairon,” she added with a knowing smirk.

Melkor tried not to look too eager as he took the messages from her. Thuringwethil had made it quite clear in a number of subtle but unmistakable ways that she was fully aware of the exact nature of his relationship with Sauron and this worried him, especially since the rest of his servants remained blissfully ignorant. This suggested three possibilities: firstly, that the orcs really were unbelievably dense, which was disheartening; secondly, that Thuringwethil was unnaturally perceptive (or at least more perceptive than an orc), which was dangerous; or, thirdly, that Sauron had told her, which was downright terrifying. He had yet to ascertain which of these was the case and so felt it prudent to assume an air of incomprehension whenever she made cryptic reference to the topic.

“He is ever so assiduous, is he not, my lord?” she said now, and it was such an obvious play he nearly smiled. “One would think he _enjoys_ writing your reports. I am sure they weigh me down more each week.”

Melkor gave a noncommittal grunt as he thumbed through the stack for anything else of interest. Thuringwethil chuckled darkly, as if she had expected such a response.

“Such diligence should be rewarded,” she commented with a sly note to her voice. “But I am sure you will see to that when he returns.” And before Melkor could protest the improper insinuation she leapt from the battlements with a laugh. There was the dull _whumph_ of wings unfurling and a black shape soared up over him and off into the distance.

Melkor swore a bit, to make himself feel better, and then he stomped back to his chambers to read Sauron’s message.

Thuringwethil had been right about one thing at least, and that was that Sauron’s reports had definitely been gradually increasing in length, though the amount of actual content seemed more or less unchanged. Instead, he had taken to including little snippets and asides unrelated to the topic at hand, which were a lot less dry than his usual style. Currently the most popular diversion was regarding his forays into designing mechanical creatures powered by a coiled spring and featured an assortment of charming diagrams in the margins, none of which Melkor fully understood. He had noticed that these asides did not feature in Sauron’s verbal reports and suspected that his lieutenant was finding the company on the island somewhat lacking.

He skimmed the section about the repair process, which looked much as it had in the last report, and instead read the humorous account of an incident involving a clockwork hummingbird which had overstepped the limits of its construction and exploded, sending its mainspring hurtling across the workshop to take out three orcs and embed itself an inch deep in the door. There was a crude ink sketch of the orcs in various stages of agonising death, with the path taken by the spring added in red. There seemed to be some sort of arcane incantation squashed into the margin, although upon closer inspection it turned out to be merely the equation of the trajectory. Underneath, Sauron had added, _(New sport? 10 points a limb, 50 for the head.)_ When Melkor had stopped laughing he pinned that page to the wall next to the map.

When he had deemed that sufficient time had passed, Melkor locked the door of his chambers, quelled an inappropriate snigger of anticipation, settled back in his chair and sent his mind out into the wilds. This time, he put in some extra effort to test if he could actually see an image of the land beyond his walls. Impressions and auras were straightforward to gather but somehow not as pleasing. Visual information was harder, and depended a lot on the disposition of the area. Now, as Melkor looked beyond the gates of Angband, the landscape was bathed in midday sun which washed out colours and swallowed details; he could, if he wished, have extended the cloud cover over the mountains and shaded out the painful light, but he cared little for what he might have seen. Instead he moved swiftly south, seeking the long glistening line of the river as it wound down through the vale.

The landscape around the island was sharper and clearer, as if the powers there permitted him to see. He had hoped this would be the case. Even so, there was still detail lacking, though he could make out the rough outlines of the towers and fortifications, many of them still damaged from the last attack. All over the outer walls he could sense the dull grey minds of the orcs and men labouring to close the breaches in the fortress's stone skin, but nowhere on the scurrying surface or in the pinnacles of the towers could he sense his Maia. The only direction remaining was down.

The forges under the island stronghold were not as large or as well-supplied as those of Angband, needing as they did only to sustain the armouries of a relatively small outpost. Still, they were alive with activity and though Melkor could not feel the dry heat of the furnaces he could sense the constant motion around them. But there was one corner of the complex where the orcs did not go. It was there that Melkor found his target. Bent over an anvil was a glowing figure, gleaming gold in his mental vision, tapping away at some sort of metalwork clamped to the iron.

Melkor pondered for a moment how best to make contact. Should he open with a greeting? The mental equivalent of a polite cough? No, he decided. There was payback to be dealt for Sauron's earlier cheek, not to mention that it was clearly his fault that Melkor was in this state in the first place. So the Black Foe of Arda gathered his powers, stretched out his dark will and used it to give his lieutenant a firm swat on the backside.

Sauron exploded into a whirlwind of motion. His tools dropped to the floor with a clang as his right hand drew a long, curving dagger from its sheath at his hip and his left hand burst into sorcerous flame. His eyes burned like stars as he searched the apparently empty forge for evidence of intruders. Melkor chuckled at the sight of the Maia so perturbed, and it apparently travelled, for Sauron froze. Then he closed his eyes and clenched his left fist. Slowly the flames clinging to his skin extinguished themselves. Exactly ten seconds later he let out a sigh and thought, _Good afternoon, my lord._

_Good afternoon, Mairon,_ said Melkor casually. _I hope I am not interrupting anything too critical._

_It is nothing, my lord,_ replied Sauron, sheathing the dagger and picking up the assortment of tools and bits of semi-molten metal now spread over the floor. He was obviously trying very hard not to sound annoyed, which Melkor found absolutely delightful. _How may I serve you_?

_You need not. May we not simply speak?_ Melkor poured a bit more energy into sharpening up the image before him and was rewarded by the golden glow fading into the warm orange light of the furnaces. Now he could see the annoyed expression on Sauron's face. It was _lovely._

_With respect, my lord_ , said Sauron, examining the bit of metal on which he had been working, _it is never simple with you._

Melkor chuckled. _Would you have it any other way?_

Sauron did not reply, but Melkor caught the slight curve of his lips. He hated to admit it, but he _had_ missed this, the way their strictly hierarchical relationship had mellowed over time into something that might almost be mistaken for friendship from a distance.

Right now, however, there were more important matters to attend to.

The Maia’s flame-red hair was pinned up out of the way with two jewelled hair-sticks, revealing the curve of his pale neck, and Melkor felt a sudden urge to caress the soft skin there, to run rows of kisses up the side of his throat, or else to sink teeth into the flesh above his collar-bone and hear pain and delight mingle in his gasp. In the end he settled for concentrating his will and resting it like hands on Sauron's shoulders.

Sauron started just a fraction at the contact. _I see you have not been entirely idle, my lord_ , he said in a tone that was a hair away from cheekiness.

_No need to sound so surprised, Mairon,_ admonished Melkor, though he did in reality enjoy the slight hint of mockery in Sauron’s voice. To show that he was not actually angry he allowed the touch to ghost over the base of Sauron’s neck and savoured the tiny shudder it elicited.

Going about the fortress, Sauron clothed himself in many-layered robes of embroidered silks, or else the burnished scale mail he himself had crafted from steel hardened by dragonfire. Like all of Sauron's doings they were part of his deceits, for steel and silk alike concealed his true nature. But down in the forges, where metal melted and loose cloth burnt, he wore studded leather, tightly fitted and sleeveless, so that when the invisible hands on his shoulders slid down his arms their fingertips brushed not over fabric but over toned muscles usually hidden. Many lesser creatures had not realised that beneath the fair features and finery lurked great and terrible power. It was not a mistake they made more than once.

Sauron shifted his shoulders in a seemingly careless movement, but Melkor was certain that he pushed into the touch just a little. _I assume by your lack of urgency that Angband still stands?_

_It has not yet fallen apart without your leadership, it is true._ Something cold and wet nudged Melkor's arm and the vision wavered as an enormous hairy head shoved its way onto his lap with a noise that might have been a woof if it had come from a creature a tenth of the size. _Though I believe Draugluin is pining for your company,_ he added, scratching the wolf absently behind one ear.

_He is not alone, I judge_ , replied Sauron slyly.

Melkor was glad that Sauron could not see his face colour. Oh, the wicked creature had nerve to suggest such a thing, the more so for the fact that he was in all probability completely correct. All the more reason for his needing to be taught a lesson. _I confess your absence irks me, for the nights grow cold here_. He turned his will from Sauron's arms down to his leather-clad hips and pressed a little harder. This time his Maia definitely shifted to press back.

_Does that mean you have not taken another to warm your bed in my stead?_ _I am flattered, my lord._

Melkor was taken aback. He had not even considered that a possibility, and indeed the thought of it now was repellent. But perhaps Sauron had expected it. What would he think now? Would he see it as weakness that Melkor would not bed another?

_There are none as fine here,_ he said truthfully. _Did you not counsel me on the value of patience?_

_I did, but I did not think you were listening._

_Insolence!_ Melkor gave the mischievous Maia another playful smack on the rump. Sauron threw back his head and laughed, and Melkor felt his mirth both as sound bright and gay and also as a rush of warmth in his mind. Suddenly the urge to touch and hold and kiss was unbearable and Melkor despaired at the gulf between them. He covered it with the next part of his plan, which was to bring the remainder of his power to bear in the sensation of breath on Sauron's bared neck and whisper, _I should punish you for that._

He felt Sauron's sigh gust across his mind. _How will you do that, my lord, so distant as you are?_

_I am sure I will devise an elegant solution._ As a demonstration, he sent the feeling of a prickling pulse of energy skittering over the Maia’s skin.

Sauron hummed in satisfaction, head tilting slightly as if wishing to fall back onto a shoulder that was not there. _I should be working, my lord,_ he murmured. He didn't seem particularly concerned by the statement.

Melkor sprung his trap. In a flash he withdrew his will and said, as if ashamed that he had interrupted, _Oh, indeed? Then I should not be distracting you. I shall return at a more convenient time._

_What? My lord-_ began Sauron, sounding startled, but Melkor was already gone from his mind.

Back in Angband, Melkor finally permitted himself an unlordly snigger at the thought of his lieutenant left high and dry on Tol Sirion. Draugluin lifted his head from Melkor's lap and gave him a vaguely reproachful look. "Oh, fret not," he told the animal. "Your master enjoys that sort of thing." Draugluin did not look convinced, or at least presumably he did not look convinced; he was, after all, a wolf and it was difficult to say.

All in all, though, the Plan was proceeding very well indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an alternative take on the last scene, [ wander over to my tumblr.](http://lady-gorthaur.tumblr.com/post/130568950608)


	4. Chapter 4

In hindsight, the third visitation might have been a step too far.

The afternoon was long waned, for all the difference it made to the murky skies over Thangorodrim, and the unfortunate souls who had drawn the straws for the third watch were just grumbling to their posts when Melkor’s mind wandered once more across the land to the island in the river.

At the time of his third (admittedly obnoxious) interruption, finding his lieutenant took no time whatsoever, for the glowing brand of the Maia’s spirit was readily apparent high on one of the outer walls, surrounded by an assortment of lesser minds all of which seemed grey and dull in comparison. Melkor held back for a moment, stretching out the merest tendril of his consciousness, just to see if he could eavesdrop on the conversation without notice.

“...another three weeks, my lord,” an orc was saying and sounding as though it deeply regretted having to do so.

“That is a shame,” said Sauron, in the tone of voice Melkor recognised as actually meaning, “ _That is completely unacceptable and you are an incompetent fool whose utility is rapidly exhausting itself_.” Sauron often managed to say a lot with few words. “I had hoped to inform Lord Melkor that the fortifications would be sound within the next seven days. I would so hate to disappoint him.”

The orc spluttered something in response but Melkor was busy being fascinated by the curious sound of his own name uttered aloud without actually being there to be attached to it.

“That is much more satisfactory,” said Sauron; presumably the orc had decided that, lo and behold, the work could in fact be completed much quicker. “After all, my lord is not known for his patience.”

The opening was too good to resist. Melkor insinuated himself into the back of Sauron’s mind and commented, _Oh, come now. I thought we had agreed that I was making progress on that front._

To his credit (and Melkor’s considerable disappointment), Sauron did not flinch, or start, or give any sign physical or mental that he was the least bit surprised by the sudden voice in his head. “Back to your work,” he told the orc. “I will expect a report in two days.”

Melkor huffed. A hundred leagues away, Sauron said, _Really, my lord? Did you think I might not notice another mind using my ears? You should have tried one of the orcs._

Melkor did not much like the idea of poking around in an orc’s mind. Not that he found rummaging through Sauron’s thoughts much preferable; he was a bit worried about what he might find.

_Was there a reason you contacted me, my lord?_ asked Sauron. _Or were you merely curious again?_

_Do you know_ , said Melkor conversationally, ignoring his lieutenant’s impatient manner, _I have quite forgotten. But since I am here_ , he continued, winding the force of his will around Sauron’s waist like an embrace, _perhaps we might continue where we left off._

_My lord, now is not a convenient moment_.

_That is a shame_ , said Melkor in a passable imitation of Sauron’s earlier words. _I would so hate to be disappointed._

_It is unseemly to eavesdrop, my lord,_ said Sauron; or, rather, he started to think it and then the rest of the sentence came out as a sort of mental intake of breath as Melkor’s touch slid over the curve of his hip and down his thigh. _My lord, I really must insist-_

The golden figure reached out a hand to steady itself on the parapet, and Melkor took the opportunity to run a finger feather-lightly down the inside of that outstretched forearm.

Sauron’s gasp was exquisite, sound and shudder and a burst of heat that carried over the great distance between them. Melkor had not identified many ways of reducing the cheeky Maia to a quivering mess (though this was not for lack of trying), but this was one method that he had found reasonably reliable.

_That is unfair,_ complained Sauron, and there was just the hint of a shake in his thought. It probably had something to do with the delicate filigree patterns being lovingly traced onto his inner wrist.

_I am very rarely fair_. This was true, though Melkor had to admit that he was being perhaps a little cruel. But it was equally unfair, this strange hold that Sauron seemed to have over Melkor's mind and body. Surely this evened it out. Satisfied that his devious plan was justified, he set the rest of his will running soft caresses up and down the Maia's spine. Sauron's breathing was a gentle ebb and swell in his mind, gaining gradually an edge of urgency.

It was curious, the ability to give pleasure to another. In the early days, before he had first taken Sauron to bed, Melkor had on occasion watched the corporeal creatures engaged in copulation merely for sport and wondered, to what end? There was power in it, certainly, the mastery of flesh and bone, and even now, separated by this great space, Sauron’s ragged gasps were proof that Melkor commanded his lieutenant’s body as much as his soul. But in all honesty Melkor could not say that he thought always of power when he held the Maia in his arms and laid rough kisses down his throat, over his chest, up the inside of his thigh, and the satisfaction that came from the sight of Sauron’s eyes fluttering closed or from the sound of Melkor’s name falling wraithlike from parted lips was little to do with mastery. Perhaps there was something else, something inbuilt to his physical form, that sparked in him the desire to see his faithful servant in ecstasy at his master’s hands.

As ever, though, Melkor set aside this strange and slightly concerning train of thought and concentrated on the task at hand. There was a crimson tinge creeping into Sauron’s golden aura, and as Melkor’s will slid scandalously low there was something in the tremble of the Maia’s mind that might almost have been a whimper.

_You like this,_ Melkor teased. _Ah, you protest, but, wanton little creature, you enjoy it._

_I would enjoy it a great deal more were I not in the middle of something else already,_ came Sauron's reply, sounding slightly strained.

That was as good a cue as Melkor might have wanted.

_I see. Well, if that is the case,_ he said, unable to keep the note of sarcasm from his mental voice, _I would not want to waste the effort when you are so preoccupied. Perhaps another time._

And to his great delight, as he released his lieutenant from his mind's grasp and fled again, he caught the last fading echoes of a plea tinged with red-hot desperation:

_No, please, wait--_

Oh, it was beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

It was late that night when the touch came. Melkor had run out of useful, semi-useful and dubiously necessary things to occupy his time. He had shouted at a lot of people, which he considered a vital part of the lording business, and had just finished rereading Sauron’s latest report in preparation for pretending _not_ to have read it as an increasingly flimsy excuse for pestering his lieutenant.

It felt initially like something breathing on the back of his head. He turned, but the only other occupant of the room was curled snout-to-tail in front of the fireplace and snuffling (if the word could be applied to a sound as soft and elegant as that of a mountain collapsing). He checked the ceiling, in case Thuringwethil had once again decided to forget how to announce her presence, but all was as usual.

 _Dear me,_ he thought, apparently to no-one in particular. _It must be urgent. Tell me: how numerous are our enemy’s forces?_

The reply was as smooth as silk. _Oh, uncountable thousands, my lord. I am afraid all is lost. I thought it only polite to tender my resignation formally before I flee to the mountains to spend the remainder of my existence herding goats._

 _I am detecting a degree of sarcasm_ , thought Melkor around a particularly undignified snigger. _Why, then, do you call, if not to deliver ill news?_

It should have been impossible to convey the impression of a careless shrug over a hundred leagues, but Sauron managed it nevertheless. _It is a convenient moment_.

It took a few seconds for the full implications of those five words to filter through into Melkor’s consciousness.

 _Ah,_ he said when they did.

 _It has been a rather vexing day, my lord_ , continued Sauron, apparently from somewhere behind Melkor’s head. Invisible hands settled on his shoulders and squeezed just a little. _I have been continually interrupted in the course of my duties and, to compound the insult, these interruptions have all ended unsatisfactorily._

_And you felt that you must be satisfied before you retire tonight?_

_On the contrary; I have already retired._

Again, the full implications took their time in arriving.

 _Ah,_ said Melkor again.

 _I take from your manner that you have not,_ said Sauron. _Perhaps you should do so; the hour grows late._ There was an unmistakable invitation in his suggestion. Had they been both in the same room there would have been no doubt as to where this was leading.

 _It seems I have less reason to stay abed at present,_ Melkor lamented half-seriously, and felt Sauron chuckle.

_Permit me to offer a compromise._

Melkor swallowed a gasp as incorporeal fingers ran the length of his jawline and down his throat. He couldn’t help but notice that he was once more at the mercy of Sauron’s will, which felt rather unjust given the entire purpose of the plan.

 _Tell me, dear master_ , came that purring voice in his ear. _What are you wearing?_

That was not a question Melkor had ever been asked. He looked down at himself and tried to devise an efficient but accurate way to describe what he saw.

 _Black_ , he decided finally.

Sauron’s laughter was like molten gold poured directly into Melkor’s bloodstream, at once brilliant and burning. _Yes_ , _I suppose that was a foolish question. No matter. Remove it, whatever it is._

The demand in his servant’s voice sent a shuddering thrill down Melkor’s spine. Part of him felt that he should protest, though a larger and more vocal part was already unlacing his shirt. _Do you think to command me?_

The ghost of an exasperated sigh floated over the leagues between them. _No, my lord, I think to have you unclothed and in my bed. Given the inherent difficulty of the latter, I am improvising. Are you disrobed yet?_

 _Again, I seem to recall many a long lecture on the value of patience_ , said Melkor, tugging his shirt off over his head. _Do you so casually disregard your own advice?_

 _My store of patience runs thin today_.

_As do your manners, it would seem._

_My apologies,_ murmured Sauron, and he almost sounded actually repentant. _The nights are cold here also, and the company poor._

Melkor snorted. _You mean that you too have had no others? I find that difficult to believe. Surely it has been necessary to beat them away with a stick._

_You think me faithless, my lord?_

_Opportunistic,_ Melkor corrected him. _I was not aware that faithfulness had any place in this arrangement._

 _I am led to believe that the Firstborn take only one mate,_ offered Sauron as if imparting an interesting fact. _An inflexible stance, I have always felt. Still, if there is one more satisfying than all others…_

 _Is this what you think this is, then? Mateship? You exceed your station, Gorthaur._ And yet, there was an odd twinge in his chest at the thought. He dismissed it as another strange side effect of life in a physical body.

 _If I had never thought to exceed my station, I would still be hammering wall sconces in Almaren,_ countered Sauron smoothly, and Melkor had to concede the point.

Instead of complaining further, he tossed the last of his garments aside. _There, o impatient one, I am unclothed._

 _Excellent. Now, come to bed, dear master_ , entreated that tempting voice, with a tickling under his chin as if of a finger gesturing, and Melkor obeyed wholeheartedly. No sooner had he sank onto the silken sheets than Sauron’s hands were on him, dragging tingling trails down his chest, and oh, how he ached to feel long fingers knotted in his hair and the Maia’s weight across his hips.

 _So insistent,_ thought he, even as his body gasped at the sensations. _Have you missed me so?_

_So sayeth he who has been pestering me all day for no adequate reason._

_It has been an uninspiring few months_ , said Melkor defensively.

_Indeed. Have you thought much of me, my lord?_

_That would be unwise; you think enough of yourself as it is._

Another beautiful burst of laughter, rich and molten and simmering through him. _Well,_ I _have thought much of_ you _._

There was something in the way he said it, a coy lilt hinting at another thing entirely.

_And what have you done, wicked creature, whilst you thought of me?_

_Would you like a description? Or a demonstration?_

_Both?_ suggested Melkor hopefully, and he practically felt Sauron roll his eyes.

 _Indecisive as well_. _Honestly, my lord, I do despair sometimes. Very well; both it shall be._

Warmth wrapped around Melkor’s wrists and tugged ever so slightly, and he let his hands be guided up and pressed into the pillow above his head.

 _As I said, it is cold at night on this island,_ Sauron continued. _You know how I detest the cold._

_And you warmed yourself with thoughts of me? How touching._

_Indeed, I thought of you. I thought of your arms around me — oh, but you do cling so. I thought of your hands, great and strong, holding me as I hold you now._ As he spoke, Sauron’s touch wandered from Melkor’s wrists down his arms. If Melkor closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that his lieutenant was here with him, eager and willing and ever so slightly domineering. _Warm thoughts, indeed,_ Sauron finished, his voice dripping into Melkor’s mind like honey, thick and sweet.

_Do they warm you still?_

_Almost unbearably, my lord._ There it was again, the quirk of his thought suggesting filthier things than his words implied. Well, Melkor grew tired of his evasiveness.

 _Mairon_ , said he, dragging out the R longer than was really necessary, _are you touching yourself?_

 _Not yet_ , came the sly reply. _Would you like me to do so?_

_I would._

_As you command, my lord._

As Sauron hummed his acquiescence, there came upon Melkor a sudden curling heat spreading up his spine. At the same time, Sauron’s hands ran down his sides and settled on his thighs, where they rubbed in little teasing circles, and it was nice, to be sure, but it still served as a reminder of what could have been.

 _Would that you were here,_ mused Melkor. _Poor imitation, this trick of yours._

 _I will return soon_ , Sauron promised, though he did not clarify the time scale further.

 _I look forward to it,_ Melkor very nearly managed, but halfway through the sentence the hands on his thighs were joined by a third touch right between them. Three hands! Why had he not thought of that sooner?

_What will you do when you have me, my lord?_

Melkor had a list. He had been compiling it in the many overlong strategy meetings since Sauron’s departure. It was substantial, detailed and became increasingly debauched as it went on.

He was suddenly utterly incapable of remembering anything on it.

 _I am open to suggestions_ , he said instead.

_Then here is mine. We begin in your throne room. The hour is late. I still wear riding leathers and the dust of the road clings to me, for I have not stopped to wash but have come straight to your court. I kneel before you, dutiful and patient as I am, until you order me to wait upon you._

_A good start,_ commented Melkor, and indeed the image of Sauron, travel-worn, bent in deference at his feet was intriguing.

 _You do not speak your will, but I know it anyway. My hands are presumptuous. Your legs part for me—_ There was a hint of pressure on Melkor’s thighs, and he found himself shifting, almost unconsciously opening up.— _yes, like that, oh so demanding, and I see you are already aching for my touch. Too long has it been since last we met._

It was infuriating how Sauron always knew what to say, how easily his clever tongue set Melkor’s blood simmering. The picture his lewd words painted was all too clear. Yes, Melkor was already hard, already desperate to feel his Maia’s hands on him, and the knowledge that it would be many months until it came to pass only made it worse.

In his head, Sauron’s salacious narrative continued. _You bid me waste no time. Your fingers toy with my hair as I unlace you, until at last I bend my head and take you in my mouth._ The pressure between his thighs turned hot of a sudden, as hot as Sauron’s wicked mouth, and Melkor could not stop the noise of pleasure it wrenched from him. _You are eager—oh, it has been so long—your hips buck and you grab my hair and pull—ah!_ Sauron’s sentence ended in a groan as on cue Melkor reached back along the link, took hold of the handful of nerve endings behind his ear and tugged.

 _Go on,_ he encouraged.

 _You are quick_ , Sauron gasped, his carefully measured speech broken for an instant. _You curse and swear and spill in my mouth and I swallow, I always swallow. You groan as I clean you with my tongue. I am hard now, but you are spent for the moment, so I will wait. I have waited this long, an hour more will make scant difference._

 _So virtuous_. _But I will be impatient._

 _The throne room is ill-suited to such games,_ said Sauron reasonably, a hint of amusement in his voice. _Your chambers are far more fitting. I meet you there, freshly bathed. You take me in your arms at once, and oh! how I have missed your kisses, hot and fierce. Your hands rush to undress me. Normally I would dodge your eager fingers, I would tease you with my slowness, but not this time. I have no more patience._

_Then you had best wear something uncomplicated, or I shall probably tear it off you._

_I would not mind if you did._

Melkor groaned at the thought. Long had he desired to rip the Maia’s clothes from his body as he took him, as violent and debauched a ravishment as could be imagined. Alas, Sauron complained about the slightest snagged thread; never would he have tolerated such ill-treatment of his garments, and the temporary pleasure would have been quickly outweighed by the prolonged and surly aftermath. To be given permission would be an opportunity not to be wasted. _Then wear something replaceable,_ he suggested.

_I shall do so. But now I stand bare before you, at the mercy of your hands. What next, my lord?_

He wanted Melkor to say it, to _ask_. But Melkor was unused to asking. If he wanted, he took (or, more accurately, ordered it to be taken, and left his underlings to figure out how). Perhaps, there was another way...

 _Lie down with me,_ he said, closer to a command than a request. _I would feel you next to me, or beneath me._

_Hmm, beneath you, I think. Will you kiss me again?_

_Wherefore this preoccupation with kissing?_ Melkor asked, as if he had not spent an entire tactics meeting musing on the subject only last week.

_Does it not please you, my lord? It pleases me._

Oh, it pleased Melkor very much, but to admit it was more than he could manage.

 _Very well. I will kiss you_ , _since it please you, but I will not be gentle. Perhaps,_ he added, letting his thought drop low and lilting, just as Sauron did when he wanted to tempt his master, _I may even bite._

Something rather like a spark ignited the nerves at the base of his skull. It appeared that Sauron had enjoyed the threat.

 _It is unbecoming for kings to bite,_ the Maia whispered. At any other time the remark might merely have sounded sarcastic, even sardonic, but Melkor could _feel_ the truth beneath the cutting words. Sauron had many eccentricities in all aspects of his being, and this predilection for odd fancies continued behind the door of his chambers. Biting was good, yes, but so was the flat of Melkor’s palm, or the kiss of a riding crop, or the wax from a lit candle dribbled over bare skin. He had even once, in the midst of things, taken Melkor’s hand and brought it to his throat, bidding his master press down, and how his eyes had rolled as Melkor squeezed the breath from his body; he had hidden the bruises under scarves and unusually high collars for weeks afterward.

Until now, it had not occurred to Melkor to leverage this.

 _It is unbecoming for servants to pass judgement,_ he said, putting as much mastery into the words as he could. _You are impertinent tonight, Gorthaur. Must I put you in your place?_

Another spark of heat. Was this what it was like to be Sauron, and to coax to glory with naught but words? The feeling was intoxicating. Perhaps this was the last phase of the Plan, and he had only just realised.

_If I have displeased, my lord, I must be punished._

There it was, another of the Maia’s fancies. Melkor had never yet felt the need to severely discipline his lieutenant but he had come to the conclusion that it was probably impossible anyway; Sauron seemed to enjoy every form of corporeal sanction imaginable, and at times Melkor was convinced he enjoyed the idea of punishment in and of itself. There were certainly times when Melkor had taken him to bed more roughly than usual over some minor disagreement only to realise later that it had been Sauron’s design all along, that he had been winding up his master like the clockwork hummingbird, with a similarly explosive result.

 _What punishment would suit?_ He had a feeling he could guess what Sauron might suggest.

_Bite me again. Harder._

Ah, yes.

 _Harder,_ Melkor agreed. _Yes, I will leave you some marks of your chastisement upon which to reflect._

_Where?_

_Your neck first, where they may be displayed for all to see._ No scarves or collars this time, decided Melkor, and it might even be amusing to see the excuses Sauron might devise. _Then your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. These you may keep hidden._

 _Lower?_ asked Sauron coyly.

_Nay. Turn over. The base of your neck next, and down your spine. Then, perhaps, when I am satisfied with your contrition, I might grant you reprieve. Reprieve, and more besides._

_What more?_

_I will take you with my fingers first_ , Melkor promised. _Slowly, as you like it, until you whine like a pup for me._

 _Yes._ The word brushed over Melkor’s mind, soft and sibilant, sending little thrills of pleasure down his spine. _Oh, yes. Would you like me to beg, dear master?_

_I do not intend for you to have a choice._

_How decisive of you,_ Sauron teased. _So, when I am nigh out of my mind aching for you, how will you have me?_

_On your back, to begin with. I want to see the look in your eyes as I enter you._

_Will you be slow still, my lord?_ The voice trickling into his ear now was almost sickeningly coy, though it shook enough to belie the teasing words. _Will you take me gently, as a maiden in the first flush of youth?_

Melkor laughed aloud at the very idea. _You, a blushing maiden? I think not! No, this time I shall have you hard and fast, wicked little imp, and I will make you_ scream _._

Sauron spat something like a curse, a twisting, writhing, snapping serpent of a word, and the feel of it boiled the blood in Melkor’s veins.

 _Oh, yes, you would like that, would you not? Sinful harlot, you will scream and cry and I will show no mercy._ He would not last much longer; Sauron’s hands still teased him ceaselessly, their heat stirring the fire building in his loins.

 _Yes, yes, yes._ Each hissing syllable was another red-hot droplet sizzling down his spine. _Please, my lord, I ask for none!_

_You will regret those words, little Maia. You will not spill before me._

_That has never been an issue before,_ came the cheeky response.

 _Insolent whelp!_ For the third time that day Melkor dealt his insubordinate lieutenant a firm smack on the rear. This time, however, he was rewarded not with blossoming laughter but with a moan loud enough to shudder over the miles between them.

 _Again_ , gasped Sauron. _Please, my lord, again!_ And Melkor obliged, just to hear Sauron’s voice shatter.

 _Oh, Mairon, how twisted you are!_ he crooned. _Would you like it on your knees, like a beast?_

 _Yes, yes, please!_ Sauron’s voice had lost any semblance of control now, and it cracked and trembled like leaves in a hurricane.

_Then I will have you from behind, and I will forbid you to touch yourself._

_What if I should do so anyway?_

_Then I will bind your wrists, to teach you restraint._ Yet another unusual interest, though in this case Melkor could definitely understand the appeal, at least from his own point of view; there was something delicious about the way Sauron’s muscles would strain against the silk ties, the sight of such great power held in check by the thinnest strip of cloth.

 _You are cruel, dear master._ Gasped between sounds of delight, prickling like starlight, it sounded almost like a compliment.

 _I can be crueller._ Once more Melkor dealt him a stinging slap, and this time Sauron's cry was sharp and desperate.

_Oh, my lord, please, I am… ah, close…_

_You dare come before your master, lieutenant?_

_Never!_ Sauron was suddenly everywhere: caressing his chest, digging into the base of his spine, teasing down his thighs and, most devastating of all, wrapped around the centre of his arousal, burning with a heat that made Melkor’s eyes roll back and his head spin.

 _You know what you want,_ he forced out through the whirlwind in his mind. _Beg for it, little Maia!_

_Please, my lord, spill in me, I beg, I want—oh—I want to feel you—please, Melkor!_

It was the sound of his name breaking apart between the sparks of Sauron’s thought that did it. He cried aloud as his release overtook him, and somewhere amidst the waves of bliss might even have been his Maia’s name.

In the back of his mind, Sauron’s thoughts jumbled gasping and shuddering, then came another rush of pleasure, less intense than the first but still enough to make his hips roll and his lips part in a groan. Blearily he realised that it was Sauron’s end he was feeling, and the realisation wrung one final spasm of ecstasy from his weary body.

Silence descended. He lay panting awhile, his mind strangely blank and empty after so long entwined with his lieutenant’s. Then a familiar voice slunk into his ear like a cat.

 _Magnificently done, my lord_. _Most enjoyable._

Melkor carefully assembled the last of his wits from the debris that their interesting experiment had left behind. _Are you satisfied now_?

 _Oh, thoroughly,_ purred Sauron. Melkor could almost picture the Maia sprawled across his sheets, eyes half-hooded, hair disarrayed, a sated grin baring his teeth, and the image came with that same sense of quiet contentment that had so puzzled him earlier that day.   _An optimal outcome. I will be sure to include it in my next report._

 _You will not,_ Melkor warned. _I do not trust your overgrown messenger pigeon as far as I could throw her._

_I shall tell her that, when next we meet! But very well, my lord. Off the record this shall be._

_Good,_ said Melkor shortly. Sun and stars, he was exhausted, mind and body both.

 _But now it is late,_ continued Sauron softly, and his touch brushed Melkor’s brow, no harder than a gust of wind. _Sleep, dear master, and I shall tend thy kingdom. And, perhaps, if luck prevails, I might find my schedule empty tomorrow evening._

 _If it is convenient._ Oh, there was so much more to say, so many sarcastic little comments to make, but wakefulness slipped through Melkor’s fingers like mist. In the deep blue lull just before sleep, he felt, maybe, for an instant, the brush of lips against his own, and a soft chuckle fading into the distance.

_Indeed, my lord. If it is convenient._


End file.
